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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29569260">this is not a challenge. it's a tragedy.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/macaronan_and_cheese/pseuds/macaronan_and_cheese'>macaronan_and_cheese</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Stanley Parable</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, i gave stanley talking rights, it's like really just me writing out the countdown ending lol, the narrator is an asshole, this game is fun, writing the ending</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 22:35:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,514</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29569260</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/macaronan_and_cheese/pseuds/macaronan_and_cheese</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>a novelization of the countdown ending</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>this is not a challenge. it's a tragedy.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hi guys this is called "i need writing practice" and "i like the countdown ending" and "i want to give stanley a personality"</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Mind Control Facility.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Stanley swallows, wringing his hands as his gaze flicks between the doorway to the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>Escape</span>
  </em>
  <span> scrawled on the opposite wall. Everything about today is very, very wrong. There’s a voice in his head that’s never been there before. His coworkers are nowhere to be found. A secret keypad hiding a secret elevator in his boss’s office, and now this. He doesn’t… like choices. He’s good at following orders, after all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>…Though he prefers the word suggestions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stanley would like this day to be over. Technically, it could all just be a dream. Most likely. There’s no logical explanation for this. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Escape</span>
  </em>
  <span> probably means wake up. Which means he should go down that path. He pinches his arm, just in case. Nothing. Stanley sighs, closing his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The little voice tells him to walk through the door labeled </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mind Control Facility,</span>
  </em>
  <span> and Stanley does, because Stanley is good at his job, and that job is </span>
  <em>
    <span>following orders.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Mind control isn’t a pleasant phrase.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There may be answers inside. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Stanley thinks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That’s why I’m going inside. Of my own free will.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The room is shrouded in darkness, all but for a long metal catwalk and a concrete platform. On it sits a desk chair (not unlike his own), some papers scattered on the ground, and a rather large button surrounded by hazard tape. Stanley squints—a lightbulb design is on it. So pressing it… Stanley takes a deep breath, walks over, and presses it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Television screens circle around him as high and low as he can see, black and empty, lit by cold lights above and below. The room is larger than he’d expected, overwhelmingly so. Mind control </span>
  <em>
    <span>isn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> a pleasant phrase. Stanley was right. He bites his lip, brow furrowing as he looks around again. A gate beside the desk opens—he hadn’t even noticed it was there. Another catwalk. Stanley hesitates before crossing it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next button appears to have an image of a security camera on it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>no.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he gets the chance to turn around, because he </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> turning around, he can’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> this, the gate slams shut. He pinches his arm again. Nothing. Security camera. The room is filled with monitors. It doesn’t take a genius to guess what this room is for, but if he doesn’t press it, he doesn’t need to find out for sure, does he?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s nowhere to go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stanley presses the button.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The monitors flash to life, each displaying a three digit number on a white background. Stanley blinks. A three digit- oh. Oh, of course. He finds 427. They switch to surveillance views of each and every office. Stanley’s stomach rocks—there’s his desk. His computer. He wants nothing more than to be pressing buttons on that damn computer, all alone in his office all day. It doesn’t matter that his coworkers are missing. He just needs to be back at the computer. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This can’t be happening,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Stanley thinks. He feels like crying. He feels sick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Stanley does nothing but stand there, frozen, and the voice within his head continues to narrate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next gate opens and the voice—narrator?—says he walks, so Stanley walks. This has to be a nightmare. If it’s not… if it’s not, who’s running this? His boss? Stanley knows his boss. His boss would never do this. His boss isn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>capable</span>
  </em>
  <span> of this, is he? No. Of course he isn’t. This all must be a nightmare, a long, long nightmare, detailed and unreal. His footsteps land loud and heavy across the catwalk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The third button has a man inside a rectangle with an arrow above him, pointing up.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Stanley</span>
  </em>
  <span> is meant to go up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t want to see what comes next.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stanley presses the button. What choice does he have?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A small elevator topped with a blinking red light descends as the gate opens. The narrator is monologuing about Stanley’s doubts and fears—if it wasn’t in </span>
  <em>
    <span>third person,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Stanley would just say it was himself panicking. He could be going crazy. He’s probably going crazy. Stanley takes a step out and onto the elevator, gripping the rail with shaking hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With that, Stanley and the narrator rise to the next room. Stanley misses his office.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p><span>Stanley steps into a large, dark room, lit only by dozens of glowing buttons and a singular fixture above a door labeled </span><em><span>Facility Power.</span></em><span> He takes a careful step forward, inspecting a few buttons and the computers connected to them. They’re labeled with emotions: </span><em><span>happy,</span></em> <em><span>sad,</span></em><span> and </span><em><span>content</span></em><span> among others. Some have numbers, others have symbols—all of it is nonsense to Stanley. The narrator, however, seems to understand it just fine. Stanley isn’t sure if he wants to.</span></p><p>
  <span>The door labeled </span>
  <em>
    <span>Facility Power</span>
  </em>
  <span> opens. He walks through—what other choice does he have? In front of him stands a screen larger than anything Stanley’s ever seen, almost completely blank except for the center. In the middle of the screen, the words </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mind Controls Idle. Awaiting Input…</span>
  </em>
  <span> are typed in plain white letters. Another catwalk leads toward it, and at its end sits two buttons. Two, ominous, terrible buttons. Stanley takes a step forward. Another, then another. The narrator says, ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>The machinery would never again exert its terrible power over another human life.’</span>
  </em>
  <span> The mind control machine, then. The button on the left says </span>
  <em>
    <span>On,</span>
  </em>
  <span> the other </span>
  <em>
    <span>Off.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Stanley knows what he’s supposed to do. The narrator says nothing. Stanley has done everything it’s said, all this time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Stanley is tired of all this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t spare a second thought before slamming his hand down on the left button.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, the voice in his head turns harsh. </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘Is that what you wanted? Control?’</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut up,” Stanley says.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>‘There’s only so much that machine can do.’</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Stanley doesn’t understand. “Shut </span>
  <em>
    <span>up,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>‘If you want to throw my story off track, you’re going to have to do more than that.’</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Shut up!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Stanley yells, hands rising to his temples as he stumbles backward. “Get out of my </span>
  <em>
    <span>head—</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>‘Stanley suddenly realized that he had just initiated the network’s emergency detonation system. In the event that this machine is activated without proper DNA identification, nuclear detonators are set to explode, eliminating the entire complex.’</span>
  </em>
  <span> The screen turns red and a massive timer appears. Two minutes. Stanley grabs the rail for support before turning around and bolting back into the other room. The lights are up fully now, a silent red siren crossing the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Wake up,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Stanley thinks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You have to wake up.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>‘This is making things a little more fun, isn’t it, Stanley?’</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t do this,” Stanley says desperately. No one is here but the narrator. No one would hear a cry for help. Nuclear detonator. Two minutes. It could be a lie, couldn’t it? It could. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>could.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “I have a </span>
  <em>
    <span>life,</span>
  </em>
  <span> I don’t want to die!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Does he?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stanley begins to press every button in sight, slamming his hands down on every key on every keyboard. Some have numbers—he tries them in order, highest to lowest and vice versa. Nothing. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nothing.</span>
  </em>
  <span> His hands are trembling, his vision is blurring with tears, his heart is pounding, and he doesn’t know what to do. No orders. Stanley </span>
  <em>
    <span>needs orders.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There is no one but the narrator, and the narrator is taunting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stanley begins to cry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“At least tell me where my coworkers are. That’s all I want to know. Please, </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>‘What’s that? You’d like to know where your coworkers are?’</span>
  </em>
  <span> The narrator is listening. It’s listening, and it doesn’t care. </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘I erased them. I turned off the machine. I set you free.’</span>
  </em>
  <span> It begins to ramble on about stories, about letting Stanley stay in his office forever, letting Stanley die alone, and Stanley couldn’t care less. He just needs to get out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let me out,” he whispers. “Please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The narrator doesn’t answer. It keeps talking about controlling the story, how </span>
  <em>
    <span>amusing </span>
  </em>
  <span>it is, how it hates to see the story go. Stanley keeps trying the buttons. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Incorrect,</span>
  </em>
  <span> the computer reads. He swears under his breath, slamming his hand down on a big red button beside him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Incorrect,</span>
  </em>
  <span> the computer reads. “I don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>care,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Stanley hisses. “Just- just—”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>‘Only thirty four seconds left… but I’m enjoying this so much! You know what? To hell with it. I’m going to put some extra time on the clock; why not?’</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck you,” Stanley says, voice shaking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It asks if Stanley thought he could do something to turn the timer off. “Yes,” he answers, “and I’ll keep fucking trying—”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>‘This is not a challenge,’</span>
  </em>
  <span> it says, and its words are biting. </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘It’s a tragedy.’</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Stanley sinks to his knees, head in hands. The room is shaking. Less than thirty seconds left. The narrator keeps going, the room keeps shaking, the timer keeps getting lower and lower and lower, and it’s all a sick joke, a </span>
  <em>
    <span>sick joke,</span>
  </em>
  <span> and it keeps taunting and taunting and taunting and—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The timer hits zero.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything ends.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The narrator prepares for the next story.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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